Nan dabbed a tear from her cheek with a handkerchief and leaned in to my mother.
“Janet, have a look at my eye,” she said, teasing down her watery lower lid with the tip of her finger. “I think I’ve got a weeping rectum.”
This was one of the many things we loved about Nan. The way words fell from her lips. Her malapropisms and misrepeated sayings. So my mother didn’t correct her. Instead she stifled a laugh and advised her to visit her doctor.
This troubled me. Because I could picture the imminent misunderstanding in his office.
Nan repeating her error. Her trusting nature stopping her from questioning his request for her to remove her underwear. But despite a lifelong confidence in medical professionals I could imagine her thinking, as he asked her to bend over and raise her dress, that he seemed to be taking the long route.
(Update: The show, which was a joy to do, can be found on Evidently’s Mixcloud page.)
On August 13th at 8pm the brilliant Kate Feld and I will be on FAB Radio’s spoken word show Evidently, promoting the next The Real Story LIVE event. We’ll be discussing the event with presenters Ella Gainsborough and Kieren King as well as reading a couple of stories and introducing some songs that we’ve found inspiring.
When they’re not presenting their radio show, Ella and Kieren also run the Evidently poetry night every 2nd Monday in The Eagle Inn, Salford. You can find details about it here. If you like live poetry, pubs and/or Salford then it’s really the night for you. If you’re one of those people who’s scared of going out in Salford at night, don’t be. Salford is probably more afraid of you than you are of Salford.
In case you’re curious about what Kate and I sound like before the show, you can hear Kate reading her excellent short story ‘Max and Bird’ on the latest edition of the Tapes and Tales podcast (I bloody love Tapes and Tales). And, if you like, you can also listen to me on this YouTube video, reading out commuters’ negative tweets about Metrolink.
“You can’t wear that.”
I was aware that I was speaking out of turn. That Gordon was my boss and that I shouldn’t have challenged him. But some situations require you to take a stand. In this instance over the t-shirt he’d had printed and was planning to wear to a pirate-themed event funded by one of our suppliers.
He’d been so pleased when he’d shown me. So proud of his work. The front bore our camera shop’s logo, festooned with clip art cutlasses and Jolly Rogers. On the back he’d listed the photographic services our store offered, tweaked with a pirate theme and written in a quilled font across a foxed, yellowed scroll.
1 hour rape
4 hour murder
24 hour pillage
“You just can’t.” I persisted.
“Why?” he replied, deflated. Worryingly oblivious.
“Because it says you provide rape. For a full hour.”
“Within the hour,” he said briskly. “We print photos within the hour.”
“But this says rape!”
“Oh, everyone will get the joke,” he said. “They have a great sense of humour at these events.” He paused to consider my opinion. “I mean, 24hr rape I’d understand…”
The cleaners were chatting in the staff kitchen this morning.
“Alan something,” One of them said, trying to recall the name of a deceased local barber. “Brilliant. Only charged £3. Didn’t believe in hairspray.”
“What did he use?” her colleague asked.
They always spoke like this. In dryly amusing fragments. Snippets and sighs. As if their exchanges were determined efforts in efficiency. But when I walked in on their conversation the other morning it seemed especially concise.
The three of them were sitting around a table, each speaking in turn. The first with a note of victory, as if she’d just successfully answered a quiz question. The second like she’d just failed to answer the same question. And the third as though she was confirming the answer.
I waited for more. Some context. But they all sat back in contented silence. Staring into space. No more needing to be said.
The quiet was heavy and compressing. I fought a sudden, rising desire to speak. A desperate, tick-like compulsion. I stirred my mug of tea and bit my lip. The clock hit 8am.
“Right,” One of them said, slapping her knees then getting to her feet with a soft grunt. The others followed suit and the three of them left the room.
I waited for the door to fully close behind them before releasing the word like a long held breath.
On August 19th I’ll be reading a new essay at the The Real Story‘s third regular live event, headlined by highly respected Forward, Costa and Whitbread Prize-winning poet Michael Symmons Roberts. The Real Story is a group run by Kate Feld and Nija Dalal-Small, dedicated to publishing works of creative nonfiction.
The first public reading I ever did was at The Real Story’s inaugural live event back in January. Until that point the closest I’d come to spoken word performances were the PowerPoint presentations I was obliged to do at work. Cold, ugly affairs that required me to point at charts and parrot business non-words while my soul turned black and leaked into my shoes. In short, these presentations made me feel that public speaking was only slightly preferable to being shot at.
Writing and reading for The Real Story changed that belief, transforming me from a shy man who didn’t dare show his work to anyone into a shy man who now regularly stands on spoken word stages reading his private thoughts to strangers while shaking as if subjected to his own personal earthquake. Small but significant progress.
As well as Michael Symmons Roberts and myself, Kate and Nija will be reading, as will novelist Marli Roode and my good friend Nick Thompson. It’ll be a good time. These events are always a good time. There will be no PowerPoint.
p.s. Entry is free/donation-based. Like buying a Radiohead album.